


Of Empty Boxes

by goldenteaset



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: (to say the least), Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Creepy, Cultural Differences, Demons, During Canon, Gen, Hypocrisy, M/M, Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Shippy Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-24 05:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14948108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenteaset/pseuds/goldenteaset
Summary: "Terror is a spice that goes with every meal, and Gresit offers it up hand over fist. (Perched on the church’s steeple, Blue Fangs offers thanks to The Bishop for his thoughtfulness.)"The Bishop's occupation of Gresit, from Blue Fangs' point of view.





	Of Empty Boxes

**Author's Note:**

> Hallo! This was going to be posted on Halloween, but then it turns out Season 2 will be out soon (date pending?). So I decided to celebrate by posting it now! 
> 
> (What a pity Blue Fangs won't be around for Season 2. ;_; At least he got a good meal beforehand?)  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Castlevania (Cartoon).

Blue Fangs has to admit, he’s surprised. He expected The Bishop to flee Targevist and leave God’s will to some other shepherd. And yet, as the blood-rain continues to befoul Wallachia’s capital, the source of Dracula’s rage saunters through the country in search of a new place of residence. 

Never mind that the shepherd’s helpless flock is being devoured at this very instant. Never mind that Blue Fangs and his band are giving the capital overdue renovations—what kind of celebration is this, to have _silk_ instead of entrails bedecking the streets?

Blue Fangs shakes his shaggy head. _Oh dear, oh dear. The human that God anointed has gone deaf._

Naturally, Blue Fangs can’t let The Bishop off the hook so easily. Not when he’s this interesting.

Despite needing to rest during the day, Blue Fangs dogs The Bishop’s heels with minimal effort. The foul scent of corruption blossoms from this human like lilies, and like attracts like. Thugs, backstabbers, money-grubbers: as long as they follow The Bishop, they are men of the cloth.

All Blue Fangs need do is keep to the shadows and wait.

\---

At last, The Bishop makes his nest in the walled city of Gresit. The very sight of the place makes Blue Fangs’ spikes sink in melancholy: there are no meat-scents, no rivers of blood like at home. _How can humans stand such dreariness?_ _Perhaps God designed them that way._

Still, Blue Fangs perseveres, as he must.

His band enters Gresit at sundown, just as The Bishop’s church closes its shining doors. Squirming like plague rats through any opening they can find—and there are many—they begin the feed. Terror is a spice that goes with every meal, and Gresit offers it up hand over fist. Drunkards are especially choice; they come pre-marinated, as it were. And Gresit is overflowing with taverns.

(Perched on the church’s steeple, Blue Fangs offers thanks to The Bishop for his thoughtfulness.)

\---

The second month is when Blue Fangs discovers the concept of “Holy Days”. Hell for a demon is a centuries-long festival, but it seems humans need to dole out merriment in easily digestible portions. _They only have a single heart in their breast—perhaps that’s the reason. But what a flaw in their design!_

“How unfair—no, how tragic,” Blue Fangs moans, before slicing open a thug of the cloth’s belly with a claw. “The Bishop deserves better. Do you not agree?”

The thug is so enthusiastic about this idea his bowels turn to water. On closer inspection, he’s merely dying.

Armed with knowledge of Holy Days, Blue Fangs and his gang set to brightening up Gresit with another batch of entrails-as-decorations. Round and round they go, tied to the poles of shops and anywhere else they’d look festive and inviting. _Surely, this will gladden The Bishop’s heart!_

But the man of the hour never arrives. He simply shuts himself up in his box and lets his thugs deal with Gresit.

How _rude._

The Bishop never changes his mind. Not even the ceaseless wails of his flock dissuade him. It would be admirable…in a demon. Blue Fangs takes it as a courtship ritual, because what _else_ could it be? That is: aside from apathy, cowardice, and idiocy. The Bishop has shown _those_ traits a hundred times over by now. What a pity.       

And so, the courtship continues apace.

\---

As humans say, all good things must come to an end. It’s time for Blue Fangs to face facts: pining from afar hasn’t done any good.

Months have passed, and where is The Bishop now? Still holed up in the church like a rat. He’s even gone so far as to do Blue Fangs’ work _for him_ , pantomiming his well-crafted tactics and using it for his own gain. And for what Blue Fangs hasn’t the faintest idea. 

So. In accordance with The Bishop’s own ideals Blue Fangs will meet him directly. Not to confess sins, of course (how _blasphemous_ ). Rather, to welcome The Bishop into the fold—to his true family.

After sundown, once The Bishop has sent out his entire army off on some errand or other, Blue Fangs makes his move. Unlike this human, _he_ knows some strategy. Only the least hungry among his brood fly with him tonight; The Bishop is _his_ prey to feast upon. And as for what he’ll say…well, Blue Fangs has had a long, long while to polish his speech to perfection. Spying on the humans’ chatter has proven helpful in that regard.

“Love”. “Life” and “Live”. “Kiss.” “Let me”. Such interesting phrases that The Bishop never seemed to use correctly. (Especially the last.) He has much to learn.

Spreading his wings, his fellows in tow, Blue Fangs flies off to The Bishop’s empty box of a church.

\---

It is as Blue Fangs feared: the deafness of God’s shepherd hasn’t abated for an instant.

Excuses pile upon excuses like a mound of corpses. So much _shouting_ —can he hear himself? The Bishop stands in the darkness, flanked by demons before and behind him, and here he is calling himself “holy”.

It’s absurd. Pathetic. Disgusting.

Delicious.

And oh, is he. Fattened by the food his men stole yet withered with age, hypocrisy and sadism and fear turning his blood as rich a spice as saffron…yes, this was worth the wait. Blood and gore spills out across the pulpit like communion wine. Blue Fangs laps up every last drop, sating his hunger and curiosity all at once.

But the best part—the part that compels him to raise his shaggy head and howl in delight? In due time he and The Bishop will meet again, in a more festive locale. Nothing will stand between them. And Blue Fangs can pick his favorite human’s mind and soul apart for as long as he likes. He can devour and void The Bishop out...and start again, over and over. It will be an endless feast sanctioned by God.

As always, Blue Fangs will extend a claw to him. It’s an offer of mercy, love, and all those virtues The Bishop soiled in life. Of course, it won’t be a Holy sort of forgiveness. But that won’t matter. When one is damned to an afterlife of suffering, one must make the most of it.

Perhaps—after a hundred years or so—The Bishop will join the revels. He’ll have little choice. With his fellow demons and damned souls gathered ‘round, he’ll tell the joke of his empty box.

And Blue Fangs will laugh the loudest of all.  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :D Feedback is appreciated.


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